


Unravelled

by levitatethis



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being part of the team taps into something personal in Ariadne. She learns to walk a path that's anything but black and white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unravelled

_“Those I know I see anew   
And the space between us is reduced   
For I am human   
And you are human too  
So turn and turn again   
We are calling in all ships   
Every traveller please come home   
And tell us all that you have seen”_   
**-All Thieves, **_**Turn and Turn Again**_

  
Ariadne constructs worlds not bound by any known laws of physics and rational logic.

They are beautiful and grand, simple and eloquent, perverse in their audacity. She feels like a goddess amongst men, creating mazes for them to play or get lost in; manipulate and maneuver (if they’re quick on their mark—and this team is), encouragingly pushing her to go further than the borders of her own mind’s perceived limits.

Of course she has to be careful. Even the most extreme must rouse some semblance of reality or everything will fall apart before they’re out of the starting blocks.

“It’s a lot of power,” she half jokes one evening, poking the beast they tread lightly around.

Cobb, always in a state of limbo between unwavering focus and distraction in this waking life, shoots her a weary yet understanding look. He’s better now, reunited with his children, but couldn’t stay away for long. The call into the subconscious underworld proved too strong. Ariadne wonders if she should consider herself forewarned.

Arthur raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dances off his lips.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
When she first began studying in Paris one of the things she was driven by was the innate desire to make a mark on the world, one unique to her. It wasn’t about being famous and having her name trip off the tongues of the masses. It was far more personal.

She believed that inside of her was the ability to create something that should—and _would_—live on beyond the limited years that counted down her life. She wanted to do something notable, the kind of thing she could always be proud of because it was something she, and no one else, had brought to life and left behind as a permanent imprint.

Now she finds herself as part of a team that not only expects it of her (and supports her endeavours), but is appropriately dumbfounded when she manages to surprise them as much as herself in the process. Everyone’s reactions are different. In return, each one elicits a different response from her.

Yusuf, when he does come along on a job requiring his particular expertise, is always professional with her as she walks him through a work-in-progress level. She likes the way he murmurs and nods, keeping his questions to only the most pertinent of inquiries. They might not be very close, but he’s courteous and respectful, and she in turn trusts him with her life as much as she does with any of the others.

Eames moves through her worlds like he belongs there, in every single one. With an air of comfort and ease (and even when he’s panicked he still manages to remain very much together—if more snappish and sarcastic), he walks floor plans with a swagger and shares unsolicited opinions about who, of his many “acquaintances” (Therese, Rashida, Kimiko, Neal) would appreciate the décor.

During their last job under, keeping an eye on the mark as he made his way along the hotel’s rather long hallway to the room, Eames said, “Xavier would absolutely love this place. He and I would certainly put it to good use.” Leaning towards her, he’d added a whispered, “Maybe I could buy your time for a project off the books, darling?”

When she had met his twinkling eyes, he winked.

Eames makes her laugh, but she’s careful around him. She knows behind his charming, almost too-indifferent façade, he sees more than he lets on. She imagines he keeps meticulous mental notes on each of them to pull out later for some nefarious reason of his own. More often than not his jokes are personal, with a biting edge masterfully laced with nonchalant friendliness. There’s a spade of pleasure he takes in making others uncomfortable enough with the truth. It can be very revealing when someone else is the target. When it’s her it’s disconcerting.

Cobb is very focused the first time he sees any world she’s carefully constructed put into play. He searches angles, faces, shadows, looking at details that can go beyond her. After all, he has a history of training in this area. Although they have their moments of disagreeing, given what they’ve already been through together means there’s a mostly sturdy base beneath them than she has with some of the others.

When her work is good, in his opinion, he doesn’t hesitate to tell her in front of everyone. Over time she’s come to regard him like a big brother, someone she’s happy to impress while at the same time remaining skeptical about what he chooses to withhold from the team under the guise of protection or, in her opinion, the unintentionally condescending ‘need-to-know’ dismissive. She’s called him out on it and they’ve butt heads over the issue. In the end, however, they’ve always been on the same side.

With Arthur, when they’re not working, she is talking with him about a million different things. Eames jokes (seriously enough at times, with good humour at others) about Arthur’s lack of imagination, but Ariadne finds him intriguing all the same. There’s still much she doesn’t know. He’s open to a point, but not a fault. There are things—specific topics and subjects—he keeps close to his chest, but she never feels like he is purposely leaving her out. Rather there’s the notion that absolute trust was a casualty of this job early on. It’s now something that has to be earned.

Overall, Eames likes to verbally spar with Arthur. It’s second nature to them. She likens it to kids pulling pigtails in a playground. She’s tempted to ask them about their past, but figures it’s for them to tell her when or if they ever see fit. Instead she pieces together the random bits she picks up on and slowly creates a past that seems, at the very least, befitting of them both.

When she and Arthur _are_ working, he keeps chatter to a minimum. Just the job. As she shows him the basic structure of his level or when they’re all inside it for the first time, he’ll offer a genuine, “Impressive,” with a brow furrowed in concentration and a smile of appreciation. It’s a good look for him. Hell, even when he pushes her to come up with something better, something more worthy of her talents, he does so in a way that doesn’t make her want to tell him to fuck off. That isn’t to say she hasn’t come close a couple of times, but he stokes the fire that Cobb lit. She’s the one who gets to burn bright. That trumps it all.

Seeing that world come to life inside a dream is something else. First sight still takes her breath away and there’s no time for pats on the back (especially not when brilliance is _expected_ from everyone, rather than an exception). But there are times she’ll catch Arthur’s eye and the way he looks at her—not through her, _into_ her, like he’s seeing everything she is—makes her heart pound.

Only once have they talked about the kiss during the Fischer job. There was no need to get into cryptic meanings about potential feelings lurking beneath the surface. They treated it like a flirtatious one-off that served a greater purpose. No more, no less. Who cares if there is more to the story, at least for her?

Ariadne knows better than to mix business with pleasure. Cobb is the textbook example that still blinks red in warning to them all. Still, on occasion, when her mind drifts, she wonders what world Arthur would dream up for the two of them if he could, and if his subconscious has already created one only he’s privy to.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
The new job that’s come their way is dangerous. More so than the Fischer one. Eames has been brought back in from some excursion in Tokoyo and Yusuf’s been called back from Mombassa, a fact that ratchets up nervousness and exhilaration in Ariadne.

It’s dangerous enough that Cobb and Arthur get into a yelling match. Well, Cobb yells. Arthur rarely raises his voice beyond what would simply be considered loud in mixed company while arguing the opposing viewpoint, but his tone is steady and his words are sharp. It ends with Cobb storming out. A few minutes later Arthur makes a beeline for the front door, acknowledging neither Ariadne nor Eames who are watching him bid a hasty retreat.

Ariadne, standing by her worktable, eventually turns back to the project at hand and notices Eames (across the way by one of the computers) watching her. A smirk threatens to settle on his lips. Quickly she makes her face blank and pretends to be caught up in the walls of her dreamscape model, awkwardly tugging twice at the pointed end of the yellow and black handkerchief scarf tied around her neck.

She is dutifully ignoring Eames when he suddenly sing-songs, “Lovers quarrels can be so tedious. Of course there are some who have more trouble saying the words in the first place. What a life half lived they must lead.”

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
The smallest noises echo loudly off the walls of their large workspace. Silence does the same thing.

Eames took off an hour earlier to get dinner (although Ariadne suspects he is gone to prowl the bar in the lobby of the hotel a block down) and she is consumed with trying to sort out a possible hole in one of her designs. The silence is deafening.

“Hey. You should go get some rest. It will still be here tomorrow.”

She jerks to attention at the sound of Arthur’s voice. With an irritated glare at him for unnecessarily spooking her, she eyes him leaning against one side of the entranceway to her makeshift office. He looks like a character out of some classic black and white film in tailored black pants, a white button down shirt (faint stripes along its surface) and a buttoned black vest, an orange tie with angled red stripes tucked in beneath. She almost laughs out loud at her contrasting blue jeans and grey shirt and the two tone handkerchief scarf around her neck a muted explosion of colour. She is ever the consummate student.

“Jesus! You scared me,” she says in a chastising tone that’s unmistakable. “Can’t stop. I need to have this figured out sooner rather than later. Cobb is breathing down my neck.”

He stares at her, appearing a tad forlorn in the process. Her anger at being startled dissipates. That’s when she notices he hasn’t moved closer and is deliberately avoiding looking at the table with the models of the different layers she’s working on. She smiles to herself. He doesn’t know yet which one is his design and refuses to take a chance (and possibly make the job any messier than it needs to be). He is always the consummate worker.

_“The devil’s in the details.”_ She remembers him telling her once while teaching her about the types of designs she’d be expected to work on, including some tricks of the trade. _“Depending on the situation, they can be manipulated, played with at your discretion—to a point of course. There are always ones you can’t afford to skimp on. Those are the ones that can crash a dream into pieces and derail everything at the absolute worst time. Better to be safe than sorry. You have an eye for it and more, Ariadne. It’s why Miles threw your name into the ring. That’s why Cobb brought you in. It’s why you’re still here with the team.”_

“Have you ever tried to construct a world?” She’s curious about how they all came to occupy the roles they do.

He considers his words before answering. “I can tell you everything you need to know about a mark—almost everything. Enough that it would make you seriously consider how you live your own life and the matters you consider private or inconsequential. Everything matters. People forget that or tell themselves they’re not important enough. I can move through a subject’s mind, whether the level is mine or not, no matter what they throw at me. It doesn’t always go as planned, but I’m pretty quick on my feet.”

He watches her reaction, maybe ascertaining if she’s following along or thinks he sounds pretentious, before continuing. “I see a doorway and depending on what mars the path towards it, I can work out a hundred different ways through it. But you…you can move the doorway. Change its dimensions, flip it around, rewrite its make up; all without giving too much away to the subject. There’s an art to what you do. I can move within any perimeters set before me. You can rewrite them all together. Right hand, left hand; they work in conjunction.” He smiles. “Or maybe it’s as simple as those who can, do; those who can’t—,”

“Lecture,” she jokes.

He doesn’t laugh. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“No,” she states confidently, hoping he can tell her intentions are not to judge him. “I know you’re trying to help. This is unlike anything I’ve done before or ever expected to take on. There’s so much to take in. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. I mean, I’m kind of blown away by what I’ve made, what I still get to make. But it can be overwhelming…and if you weren’t here…if Cobb wasn’t here…I think the learning curve would be a lot higher.”

“You’re incredibly good at what you do. Better than Cobb was. It’s what impresses and makes him nervous. We’ve seen what happens when things get out of hand.”

“Mal comes barreling in like a train, destroying almost everything in her path.”

“You noticed that, huh? Heh. You’re not him. You won’t make those same mistakes, but you have to be careful all the same. I’ve watched him…deal with his ghosts, the one in particular that haunted him for a long time. She was a good person when she was alive. You’d have liked her. She definitely would have liked you. But things get twisted in the mind.”

“Was he a different person before all of this?”

“We all were.”

“Cooled down?” she asks, shaking the memory from her head, and he wrinkles his brow inquisitively. She can’t tell if he honestly thought no one heard the fight from earlier or if he was hoping it wouldn’t be brought up or if he’s truly forgotten about it.

When she doesn’t backtrack, instead presses the tips of her fingers against the table’s surface, waiting, he straightens up and bashfully shrugs.

“I would have thought by now you’d know what to expect from us. That was just a little difference of opinion. It’s what we do.” His eyes briefly flit to the small scale models spread across the table. Clearing his throat, he looks away, over his shoulder.

Taking the hint, Ariadne grabs the throw sheet folded on the chair to her left and spreads it out until the table is covered. Arthur looks back at her and drops his shoulders, letting out a satisfied sigh, the non-verbal equivalent of a, ‘thank you.’ Pushing his hands in his pant pockets, he takes a step towards her then stops as if thinking better of whatever has crossed his mind.

“Overworking yourself will only reveal new holes in the morning that may or may not be there in the first place. Working hard can easily turn into hardly working. Now that’s a headache you don’t need. Then what good will you be?”

_To the team. To me._ Ariadne fills in the blanks as she hears them (or wants to).

After a considerate pause, she’s the one who closes the gap, pondering his words, not exactly sure if he’s referring to his relationship with Cobb or with her.

“Point taken. For now.” A beat passes. “You know, you two made the walls shake,” she teases under the heaviness of his gaze, which somehow makes her movements feel slow and laboured.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” he counters, beginning to enjoy some of the friendly back-and-forth quipping, if his lilting inflection is any indication. It’s been awhile since they’ve had the opportunity to do this and nostalgic relief pangs inside her. There’s something to be said for the familiar, something she hadn’t thought was missing before.

“They can be very convincing. Especially when we want them to be,” he adds as an afterthought.

She pats her jean pocket, lightly palming the chess piece inside. “No, I already checked. We’re safe in this world.”

“As safe as we perceive ourselves to be,” he clarifies, smile firmly in place. “Each reality is just another plane of existence that needs to be traversed.”

“To be or not to be?” she muses at the philosophical question constantly permeating their work.

“Apparently _that_,” he gestures with his hand, “is the question.”

The smile on her face falters while she closely looks him over. Watching him from afar for the last few weeks had blurred the edges of him in her memory. Now she sees the remnants of the distraction his fight with Cobb has left in its wake still working itself out behind his eyes—and maybe something else—otherwise he is right here with her, nothing bullying to come between them. In itself it is an unnerving prospect. Time apart has put her out of practice dealing with Arthur and the feelings she’s increasingly aware she has for him are becoming more apparent.

An urge wells inside to take his hand—the way he awkwardly leaves it stretched out in front of him beckons—but nerves get the better of her; risking her job and everything she’s worked for nudges her conscience, and she folds her arms across her chest and stares past him.

The moment—whatever it is they still can’t talk about, aren’t sure how to broach, but can’t escape—passes and Arthur turns on the spot, stepping into the open space that connects the whole team’s collection of work stations. Ariadne silently berates herself for second guessing both their intentions, yet follows his lead.

“Eames went to get food. I think he forgot he promised to feed me,” she tries for innocent, if inane, conversation.

“If you’re relying on him you won’t be eating anytime soon. His attentions are otherwise engaged,” Arthur replies and her eyes grow wide with questions. “I bumped into him earlier.”

She considers the fact that Eames has been gone awhile. Did he leave with the intention of finding Arthur? Did they taunt each other over drinks or, when they’re away from everything else, do they talk like normal human beings? Did Eames tell Arthur she was still here, on her own? Did Arthur want to be alone with her or did he come to check up? Where the hell is Eames now? As much as she’d love to spend the night talking with Arthur, she’s not sure she can handle Eames’ endless (subtle and blatant) teasing about more going on if that’s what he suspects he’s helping orchestrate.

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles. The heat of a light blush burns her cheeks when Arthur raises his eyebrow.

“Let me treat you to dinner as a token of our appreciation for all your hard work,” he suggests, slightly bowing, one arm folded across his stomach, the other bent in front of him.

“I’m fine,” she shrugs him off and points to the kitchen area. “I can grab a snack—,”

“You could, but I doubt you’ll survive the night on a granola bar, if there are any left.” He picks up her jacket from the wall hook. “Eames used to go out with a woman whose eyes were bigger than her stomach. It meant we got stuck with a lot of their leftovers.”

He holds the jacket out to her, not to help her slip it on, but to pass it over. It’s one of those intimate actions Arthur won’t cross, unlike some others. It’s no wonder Ariadne plays guessing games with herself. For all his friendly attentiveness, she can’t single out any other indicators. It’s no wonder it’s easier (“Cowardly,” her roommate from first year, Alysse, would say) to keep things professional. At least this way she gets the (relatively) comfortable ease of being _with_ him without the confusing baggage.

She takes the jacket and pulls it on.

Arthur leads her to the door. “We rarely got around to eating. Besides, in this place you need to be ready to pick up and go on the turn of a dime. This line of work isn’t always conducive to well balanced meals, especially when we’re in the middle of a job—,”

“Eating is a detail that ends up on the shortlist of things to do. ”

“See, you _are_ quick study.”

“Great. Hunger as a byproduct and motivating factor. It’s no wonder everyone gets along so charmingly well all the time. Remind me to start packing my lunches.”

They stop at the door. Arthur has one hand around the handle and the other on the small of her back, the heat from which feels electric through her clothes. Two thoughts flash through her mind. One is a tentative, sweet kiss. The kind with barely a touch, yet enough that it made—_makes_—her heart speed up with the promise of what could be and what might already exist.

The other thought is cruder in her mind, if more visceral. She imagines the mixed look of shock and lust pooling in his eyes as she pushes him back towards the table, an amused laugh escaping his parted lips. Somehow she’d manage to knock all the dreamscape models to the floor and maneuver him until he’s half sitting on the table. Pulling on his tie, she’d shorten the distance between them and claim a hard kiss. She would revel in the heat of his mouth and the taste of him on her tongue. She’d work her hands up his chest to his shoulders, neck, leveraging herself to half straddle him. She’d hear the moan from deep within him as his hands grabbed at her thighs, ass, hips, pulling her against him and thrusting up at the same time; her own urgent panting unmistakable in tandem with her pulling at his clothes, ripping buttons off if need be, just to get more his skin, more of him because it’s now or never and she doesn’t want to wait until it’s too late and then they’re gasping...

She’d take both of those in a heartbeat. As for Arthur, she doesn’t pretend to know what’s going through his mind. As is the case it feels like some silly kiss has turned into a painful, if really badly timed crush. Professionalism and self-respect tells her to keep it together. This too shall pass.

When he meets her eyes, however, there’s a question in his eyes she can’t decipher. She’s reminded of the roles they all play, the necessity each brings to the table, important in different but significant ways. If one’s off, the whole thing suffers. It’s why taking chances is its own paradox. Risk taking, thinking off the cuff, is necessary to stay one step ahead of the game. But it also means potential catastrophe at every turn, whether in a dream or reality.

As he turns the handle, she takes a chance, adjusting her approach in a way that keeps Arthur from shifting to the defensive. She wants to ask if he’s okay. She settles for, “Is Cobb okay?”

The bottom line is, no matter how frustrated she gets with Cobb’s secrets (the ones he tried to keep the first time around, other ones she thinks he might still be harbouring), no matter how much she’s sure Arthur knows or suspects (yet doesn’t “burden” the rest of the team with), she can’t breach certain trusts (even her own). At the same time she can’t risk what they’ve all made together. Distance gives her a more objective viewpoint, but it only works if something good arises from it.

The notion of a Catch-22 sparks an idea for the maze she’s been stuck on.

“Later,” Arthur says, as if reading her mind. “The idea will still be there on a full stomach.”

He opens the door. “He’s fine…he gets high strung about certain things. It’s nothing to worry yourself about.”

“Are you worried?”

He says nothing, just shoots her a look that says, _‘let it go, this isn’t your problem.’_

She tries again. “So the fight—,”

“Is a dysfunctional form of foreplay.”

Ariadne muffles a laugh at his lighthearted dismissal and Arthur begins to say something else, but stops short. His eyes search hers, the corners crinkling. This more serious look is one she’s come to expect from him and she can’t help but think about the myriad thoughts crashing into each other in his brain.

“What do you want?” he finally asks, curiosity laden in his voice.

She’s caught off guard by the blatant question and stammers an irritatingly inarticulate, “Uh—wh—I —,”

He gives her a closed mouth, lopsided smile, and she guesses he got an answer to something he’d been ruminating on.

“There are a few restaurants around here to choose from. Or we could just walk, maybe stumble into the first one that catches both our eyes?”

Pulling her cool and collected self together, and refusing to over think what is being implied and inferred, she returns his smile. “A plan without a plan. How adventurous of you. Eames would be shocked. This will turn his whole world upside down. He’ll never believe me without proof.”

His muted laughter, a rare sound during days like these, floods over her, pulsing her senses.

She’d like to think this unguarded Arthur is at least half her doing.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Her totem is a safety net.

The problem with making a living out of dreams is that a point comes when they start to bleed into each other. Initially the strangeness of the subconscious was enough for Ariadne to know where the line was drawn between covert realities. But you spend enough time under, see the underbelly of what roars beneath society, stretch your own mind to infinity, do the things you thought about but were too self-conscious to attempt in real life or, worse, couldn’t do because the laws of the natural world wouldn’t allow it, and your subconscious starts choosing one reality over the other until it’s virtually impossible to come back to who you were in the first place.

It’s been getting more troublesome. Not enough to induce panic in her, but enough to raise concern. She palms the chess piece. There’s enough weight to it for her to know this is not her dream. Her eyes scan the sparsely populated street as she takes in any details that will reveal who the dreamer is.

They had been in Cobb’s head, the first level in a practice exercise before they officially went into the field. She and Arthur had been setting up the kick for the next level down. They had been joking and for a moment she thought he was going to say something very unprofessional (but well appreciated if he would just…) and then they met up with the rest of the team and Yusuf counted them down and then…

She walks to Eames who is waiting for her in front of a bookstore.

“Hurry sweetheart, we need to do some quick recon work.”

Picking up the pace, she crosses the threshold into the store with him right on her heels. “Are we still in Cobb’s dream?” she hisses, confused because they’re not all together like they should be.

“No,” is the flat reply to her far left, coming from the man himself.

Walking around the tables of books, momentarily struck by the seemingly endless walls of floor-to-ceiling books, Ariadne attempts to process what’s going on. Cobb looks annoyed.

Turning to Eames she says, “Practice exercise…” She points at him while trying to recall all the stepping stones that brought them here. “This is supposed to be your dream.”

“Alas, as we can all see, it’s not.”

“But I made this level for you.” She’s emphatic, irritated her hard work is potentially being compromised.

“Yes, I remember.” Eames looks around at their surroundings and settles his gaze back on her. “Seeing it in practice, though, we’re going to _have_ to do some tweaking for the real deal.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. Eames’ appreciation, or lack thereof, for the world she’s created is the least of her concerns right now. Playing a game of subtraction means—

“Arthur’s pulling rank,” Cobb says, running a hand through his hair and scratching the back of his neck.

“Wait a minute,” Ariadne snaps, incredulous about information that hasn’t been shared with her prior to now. “I know it’s possible for one person’s subconscious to infiltrate another, even when a level isn’t designed for them, but take it over? Are you kidding me?”

Cobb takes a deep breath. “It’s discouraged for obvious reasons.”

“This might be something I have to take into account for my designs,” she argues, her mind spinning with recalculations for future projects.

“It’s only used under extenuating circumstances. It takes intensive training to pull off because the proxy dreamer hasn’t learned the layout,” Cobb clarifies. “Something’s wrong.”

“What?” she asks although she knows he doesn’t have the answer.

“I don’t know,” Cobb shakes his head and looks around the store. “You have a secret way out of here?”

She hesitates, the rules about sharing layouts beyond the specific dreamer meant for each is ingrained her in mind. “Do you need it?” she questions.

“Unless Arthur’s grown an imagination gene, I would guess the answer is yes,” Eames states. “I believe you showed me a tunnel that runs below half the buildings?”

“Yeah…uh, we need to get to the lowest point in this building.” Ariadne looks around, stopping when she spots the door leading to the basement. She points and walks towards it. On the way a customer brushes by her a little harder than expected. “Excuse you,” she retorts.

“Ariadne” Cobb calls out and the warning in his voice makes her halt.

She sees Eames and Cobb exchange a look then notices other customers staring at them coldly, with hard, unblinking eyes. A clamour from the front sounds like a crowd is forming just outside the store.

“Arthur’s subconscious wants to play and I don’t think it’s going to settle for no.” Eames is beginning to look a bit frayed in his vexation with how quickly things have turned problematic.

The worry Ariadne first felt a few minutes before is now back and it twists her stomach and races her heart. ‘Death’ may mean waking up, but it doesn’t make the act, the feel of it, any less frightening. Turning to continue making her way to the back, she walks right into another person, her head slamming into the man’s chest. There’s no reaction from him other than a stern glare. Slowly she backs up a few steps and Cobb grabs her left arm, pulling her in another direction around one of the tables. Eames remains a few feet behind.

The door is in sight but the customers are starting to move in, cutting them off. Cobb drops her arm and effectively puts himself in front of her. “This might get a bit ugly,” he mutters.

Ariadne pushes up on her tiptoes, but still can’t see over his shoulder. Suddenly she feels a hand slip overtop her right one and squeeze gently. She meets Arthur’s friendly, if apologetic, eyes.

“This way,” Arthur says.

“What the hell is going on?” she exclaims.

“When I said you lacked imagination, I didn’t mean for you to be so dramatic in overcompensating, ” Eames posits dryly.

“There’s just no pleasing you,” Arthur replies and leads them in a round about way to the same destination.

“There’s no need to pull rank in a practice exercise,” Eames challenges.

“I had to,” Arthur argues, refusing to expand on the why.

Peering up at him she tugs at his hand. “You know, your subconscious needs an attitude adjustment.”

“I’d work on it if I could,” Arthur says over his shoulder, his attention going from her to the growing commotion behind them then forward again.

At the door he pulls it open and steps aside to let them in first. Ariadne stops halfway down the stairs, letting Eames pass by. She watches Cobb and Arthur at the top taking a moment to themselves.

“Is it the Zurich Brothers?” Cobb leans in close, keeping his voice low, yet loud enough for her to hear.

Arthur nods yes.

Cobb closes his eyes and utters a defiant, “Dammit!” then opens them with new resolve almost immediately in place.

Ariadne wonders if this is another secret, locked in the vault, to be mindful of.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
_“You’re waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you don’t know for sure. But it doesn’t matter because we’ll be together.” _

It’s not her story. It’s too tragic, too fatalistic for her liking. Yet she feels the heart that beats at the centre of Cobb’s riddle. She knows it better now than the first time she heard it.

Of all the world’s she’s created, and all the ones others who came before her breathed life into, there is still the one (as far as she knows, although things have a knack for getting trippy) they’re all beholden to. Within this one—this _real_ one—she walks with intent, holding her head high, but casts a curious gaze about, trying to figure out what it all ultimately means.

They’re all a team, but even that garners no absolute guarantees. Some ties that bind are stronger than others. She gets this now. More than ever.

Ariadne has her own secrets. They’re ones she keeps locked down far beneath the surface. Entering another dreamscape always runs the risk one of those secrets will turn up, uninvited. Hopefully no one would notice, but her. Up until now none has, no breach has occurred to make her clamp down with an iron fist.

She talks long distance to her parents over the phone. They tell her she sounds happy and they want to know about the job placement keeping her in Paris rather than visiting them for the summer. She makes it sound interesting yet mundane and promises to see them as soon as things slow down and she can find a cheap flight to Halifax. Work being what it is, she knows it will be later rather than soon when a trip across the pond will happen, particularly one that isn’t rushed or a ‘R and R’ prescription following a tough assignment.

It’s okay though. She wanders the billions of pathways in her mind and unleashes them in a way once not even considered possible. Worlds collide because of her and the others, turned inside out and upside down. On each plane of existence she walks with familiar faces nodding at her, smiling, counting her opinion as valid amongst their own.

And when they return to the world of flesh and blood, of breath and ash, she is the same person she always is although maybe a bit more vulnerable to the elements, of earth, air and water, of her mind, her _heart_. Her Achilles Heel pushes against her conscience bred of curiosity and a want she hadn’t realized hibernated inside, sleeping, only to be awoken with a growl.

She pushes further. Cobb is careful about breaking points. His eyes warn her to take it easy, but also to take the risk. He reminds her to balance work with a personal life, suggesting that friends from school can become a good touchstone. She takes his advice, setting time aside, but it is increasingly difficult when one of the people she wants to see is tied up in her job.

Arthur.

Arthur watches from afar, never hovering, rarely imposing, yet his presence remains an indisputable constant she enjoys, looks forward to, seeks out; if not blatantly then in the quiet moments in between the cracks when seemingly straightforward conversation can (and is) so much more. He’s the quietest, most unassuming force of nature she’s ever known.

“Can a totem ever be a person?” she asks offhandedly late one night.

“No,” Cobb replies after a thoughtful pause. “They’re too fallible. Even the most steadfast person can change. And I’m not just talking about their physical appearance. There are too many variables—yourself included. How you perceive someone changes over time due to circumstances that can be beyond your control. No one is as constant as you think. Besides, can you imagine trying to fit a person in your pocket?”

She ignores the joke and doesn’t realize her attention moves to rest on the closed door to the room Arthur has taken to using as an office until Cobb steps up close beside her. She watches him look from her to the door, then back to her. Resignation, maybe even concern, flashes across his face and he looks at her imploringly.

“Loyalty,” he says. “Those who will have our backs to the end…” He nods at her then to the side indicating he’s referring to the team in general. “Those who greet us with a welcome smile that’s _real_—and give us something we _want_ to anchor ourselves to—that’s enough to count on. It’s not an absolute. Nothing is. But it’s still something. We’ve all had to learn that in different ways.”

He spares a quick glance towards Arthur’s closed door and when he looks back at her he adds, with a firm, clear tone, “All of us.”

He doesn’t make it easy for her look away and she senses him trying to make her understand, hear what’s not being said out loud. Past the point of comfort, she crosses back to the dreamcase situated so unassumingly on the table and runs her fingers along the metal surface. She needs to think. About everything.

“That offers an infinite number of possibilities.” Cobb watches her closely. “But it’s this life we ultimately return to, again and again. It’s not that those other ones are bad, just different.”

She scoffs. “If you tell me home was always just a click of my heels away, I’ll walk out of here and never come back.”

Cobb cracks a smile. “Far be it from me to offend you with a cliché, but…pay attention to the details.”

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
With her hands deep in the pockets of her corduroy jacket, she pulls the material taut at her side. The night breeze drifts by and she raises her chin to the sky, breathing it in. There are few things that compare to a rooftop view of Paris at night when half the city is sleeping and the other half is trying to stretch out the last inkling of the hours from the day before.

The city looks like a Monet painting, speckled light densely saturates some areas while others fade into a haze of emptiness. The world is at her feet—

“And here I thought this was my secret spot.”

Ariadne jumps and spins around, for the first time noticing Arthur, half hidden in the darkness, sitting on a chair at the far end of the roof, his legs stretched out and feet propped up on the raised ledge.

Clutching her chest she wills her heart to not explode from the shock of it all. “You really need to stop materializing out of thin air.”

He gives her a quizzical look and stands up.

“Never mind.” She looks over her shoulder at the city and back to him. He’s moving closer. “What are you doing up here?”

“The same as you, I would think.” Arthur doesn’t look put out at her surprise appearance on his private turf, which she takes as a good sign. In fact he appears very relaxed, looking down at her, his hands casually in his pockets and a lazy stroll to his step propelling him forward. “Sometimes this is the only place where I can catch my breath. Take time to think.”

“Sometimes?”

He stutters his step then continues. “I’ve never had company up here before.”

There’s a warmth to his face that makes her breath hitch in her throat and she looks back at the city. “I can go.” She’s trying to give him an out, testing to see if he’ll take it.

“If you’d like,” he says distantly.

Her chest tightens with disappointment—anger at him for majoring in mixed messages and irritation with herself for not being bolder. How many conversations can they have, how closely can they work together before _they_—if there even is a _them_ outside of wishful thinking and misread situations—make some bloody sense? Sparing him a quick glance, she starts off for the door that leads downstairs.

“But I’d prefer if you stayed.”

Looking his way she sees the nervous twitch of him biting in the tiniest hint of his bottom lip. His eyes are dark, piercing, unwavering. He stands tall, shoulders back, present without being overwhelming. The right corner of his mouth pulls upwards; a shy phantom smile winks at her.

Feeling first, thinking later, she begins to reach into her pocket for her chess piece, never breaking away from his gaze, then stops.

Her brain catches up to her heart. She adds all these bits of information labeled “Arthur” together with the millions she’s taken inventory of since they first met. A picture forms, more solid than before, and she knows something close enough to the truth to be as much a certainty as anything ever was. Even if she could build this with her own bare hands and limitless mind, she’d never quite get _this_.

She ignores the chess piece still in her pocket, pressed against her thigh, reminding her she has a choice. A small smile graces her lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”


End file.
